Hedwig's House
by Respitini
Summary: Post-war. A reformed Draco invites Harry to help him build a transition school for muggleborn children. For the Teachers' Lounge Judgement Day tournament, round one: The Nutella Bowl.


Hedwig's House

"Hey, Potter. You'll never guess who's here to see you," Chief Auror Proudfoot called out. Harry Potter looked up from his desk to see a visibly nervous Draco Malfoy haunting the doorway of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

"Right, boss," Harry replied. "I'll just see what he wants." He stood up and waved Draco over to his desk.

"Malfoy? What in the hell are you doing here?"

"Fair question, I suppose," Draco replied. "Actually, I've been working on a project that I think you'll find interesting. There's this –"

"I don't have time for this, Malfoy, and to be frank, even if I did, I wouldn't spend that time on you. Now, if you'd be so kind as to remove yourself from this office, I have to be doing, well, anything else."

Draco expected a reception like this, but also knew that Harry's curiosity would eventually get the best of him. He dropped an informational pamphlet on Harry's desk with a note on it explaining how he could be reached.

It was, of course, only a matter of time before Harry responded. The project – Hedwig's House: a primary school for muggleborn children – was a sorely needed institution, and one that would never be championed by an unrepentant Death Eater. The two young men met over lunch one Saturday in a West End bistro to discuss the level of Potter's involvement.

"Honestly, Potter, all I'm asking is for your name. The symbolism alone – one of the more notorious families in the Dark Lord's circle and the leader of the Light – would elevate the profile of our school. And, frankly, I'm not sure I'd be able to get this project off the ground without you."

"No?" Harry asked. "You have plenty of money; what's stopping you?"

"Believe it or not, my family is rather a pariah in the social circles we've run in for ages. The last person anyone wants to be seen with in 1999 is a Malfoy, and frankly, I can't blame them. My father's blatant racism tainted our whole family, and –"

"Your father's racism?" Harry replied. "Your _father's_ racism? I remember quite well the annoying little shit who couldn't go three sentences without calling someone a mudblood. We're done here, Malfoy. Take your illusions of charity and goodwill elsewhere."

"Potter – Harry. Wait, please. Look, it's been difficult. My father, as you may have guessed, is not a nice man. Those lessons he taught me – magical superiority and blood purity and the like – those were not taught gently. Father was, well, you've seen our dungeons…"

Chastened, Potter sat down and continued the conversation. By the end of lunch, he'd agreed not only to lend his face and fame to the project, but also to have a hand in developing some of the curriculum. He and Draco would be spending hours together trying to meet the ambitious deadline of a September 2001 opening.

* * *

"Look, Ron, you haven't been working with him. I have. He's changed, honestly," Harry pleaded with his oldest friend. "Six months in Azkaban can change a man. That's why we do what we do, to change people, not to lock them up forever."

"I know, mate, but when have you ever seen him do anything without a scheme of some sort? He's a shifty one's all I'm saying. Just – be careful."

Harry smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Always. Now, if you could tell your mum I won't be round for supper this evening…"

Ron was livid. "You're kidding, right? You've not been by the house at all in weeks. Ginny can't get a hold of you, Mum's gone spare."

"It's a lot of work putting a school together, you know."

"Yeah, Harry. We're all figuring that out."

* * *

"You know, Harry," Draco said. "If you want to spend the evening at the Weasleys', I think you've earned it."

"It's fine, Draco. This is important."

"Honestly, though. He's got every right to be suspicious. He's just trying to protect his friend. With what we got up to at Hogwarts, I'm sure he thinks this whole project is just designed to lure muggleborns into some sort of dastardly trap."

"I wouldn't put that past him," Harry replied.

"Tsk. Mustn't talk about our friends that way. He's been by your side for ages, no matter how much the two of you have changed since eleven. Now then, I've called in a consultant to examine the curriculum we've been working on. You remember Tracey Davis from our year?"

"I remember her, but I don't think I spoke two words to her the whole time we were in school."

"Right, that's her," Draco said. "She was a bit of a recluse. Be that as it may, her sister has been studying Wizarding primary education on the Continent, and she's offered to take a look at what we've come up with. We're meeting her tomorrow night at 8 for supper at La Licorne in Paris."

"How am I supposed to get to Paris by 8?" Harry asked." I'm at work until five, then I need to get out of those Auror robes, make myself presentable, catch an international portkey and what – apparate to a place I've never been? All in three hours?"

"Perhaps you can take an hour or two off of work? You're Harry Potter, what are they going to say – 'no'?"

* * *

"Well, would you look at this? Ron, come see – we've got the great Harry Potter at our door."

"Ginny, I -"

"You what?" Ginny asked. "You didn't get my note, for one, apparently. I told you I don't want to see you again."

"But this picture – I can explain!" Harry pleaded.

"I think the _Prophet's_ caption explains plenty," Ginny replied. "'War Hero Harry Potter enjoys an intimate evening in Paris with Miss Frances Davis.' And I'd say the two of you look quite cozy there. The 'intimate' was for pudding, no doubt."

"Look. She's a consultant for our school. It was meant to be the two of us and Draco, but he had an emergency back home. It was a loud restaurant, so we had to sit close if we wanted to hear each other. We were discussing blending maths into astronomy, and –"

"Is that what it's being called these days? Look, Potter. You've barely been round in a year, and now I see you making eyes at some Slytherin tart in Paris, and – just leave."

Harry looked over Ginny's shoulder to Ron, who by this point had come downstairs and was standing behind his sister. Ron's cold eyes and set jaw told Harry all he needed to know. He walked a few yards into the Burrow's yard before turning around, taking one last look at the Burrow's closed door, and apparating away.

* * *

Christmas at Malfoy Manor didn't have quite the warmth and cheer of Christmas at the Burrow, but Narcissa and Draco were absolutely insistent that Harry not spend the Holidays alone. They were thoughtful enough to get him a beautiful hand-knit sweater from the Aran Islands, and while the goose may have dried out a bit from having been in the oven a moment or two too long, Harry enjoyed their beautifully appointed home, as well as eating a Christmas dinner on matching china.

"How are the contracts coming for the schoolhouse?" Harry asked, nervously swirling the sherry in his glass.

"Harry, you know Mother absolutely forbade us from talking business over the Holidays, right?"

"Of course I do, Draco, but it's only nine months until children start classes, and I'm not sure we're going to have a place to put them."

"We can discuss this on Wednesday, Harry. Meanwhile, have a seat; you're making me nervous with all that pacing."

"No, really, Draco," Harry insisted, "you're holding out on me. What in Godric's name is going on with the real estate negotiations?"

Draco let out a heavy sigh. "It's, well, it's all gone a bit pear shaped, to be honest. We've been looking for a place that's –"

"Looking for a place?" Harry asked. "I thought we'd found the place months ago. What happened to the house in Richmond?"

"Well, we'd tried putting a glamour charm on me, but it was warm in the office, and I rolled up my shirtsleeves, and, well, you can guess the rest."

"Oh for goodness sakes, this again? How many of these publicity appearances do I have to do before people will understand that the war is over? I mean, we're out there, putting everything on the line for a bloody children's school, and all anyone wants to do is look at a relic from years earlier?"

"It was only two and a half years ago, Harry. Wounds like that take a while to heal. But we've been working day and night to find the right place, and I'm sure we'll get it done."

"I know you have, Draco," Harry said, sitting next to his friend on the settee. "I know. And I haven't been able to be there as much because of this case we're working on. But as soon as we get this cleared up, I'll be right back at it."

"It'll be good to have you back," Draco said, patting Harry's knee. "How long do you think that will be?"

Harry looked into the sherry in his glass, gave it one last swirl, tilted his head back and downed it in one gulp. His mind was made up. If this school was ever to get off the ground on time, he'd need to devote himself full-time to the effort. And that meant giving up his position in the Aurors.

* * *

Harry was hard at work supervising the installation of desks and chairs into the classrooms of the Woodford estate he'd wound up purchasing for the school. The location was within a short walk of the tube, yet suburban enough that families from more rural areas wouldn't feel overrun by the hustle and bustle of London. The estate itself was dear enough, but the ward work necessary to allow muggle families with magical children to see it, yet keep it hidden from muggle families without magical children, nearly broke Harry's bank. However, with the stipend he was due to receive as Head Teacher, he'd still be able to live quite comfortably in the old Headquarters.

As he'd managed to get the last of the movers out of the way before setting the wards, Harry heard a series of pops behind him. He saw his old Chief Auror Proudfoot along with three of his former colleagues headed his way, looking at him surprisingly warily. Harry walked over and greeted them.

"Proudfoot! Glad to see you, sir. Come here to check on my project? Just about finished."

"Don't you 'Proudfoot' me, Potter. Who in the nine Hells gave you permission to put this school together?"

Harry stood shocked. "But I thought –"

"You thought," Proudfoot mocked. "You thought you'd just break the Statute of Secrecy 78 different times so you could build your own Hogwarts?"

"But Draco's solicitor said that –"

"Then you'd better take it up with him, because you're going to need a good solicitor. Harry Potter, you are under arrest for violating the Statute of Secrecy. Please hand me your wand, and we can bring you in gently."

* * *

7 July, 1998

It had been two months since the war between the Dark Lord and pretty much everyone else had ended, and Draco was still sitting in the same holding cell he'd been in since he and his parents turned themselves in six weeks prior. The right to a speedy trial had been in effect since long before the Statute of Secrecy, but, given the circumstances, Draco reckoned there were few DMLE bureaucrats eager to move his family's cases along. Then again, from the scuttlebutt he'd heard in the cells about some of the sentences handed down, that was probably for the best.

He'd barely noticed the sound of the cell-block door opening, but his face lit up when he heard the jailer's voice call out "Oi, Malfoy. Look lively, you've got a visitor."

As his friends were all either dead or in similar living arrangements, he couldn't imagine anyone from outside the Ministry jail that would want to see him, but his eyes lit up, and he smiled for the first time in a long, long time seeing his mother on the other side of the visitors' ward.

"Draco, darling. Sweet Merlin, but you look a fright. Have they been feeding you enough?"

"Mother? When were you released? Have you had your trial?"

"I have, dear. I was sentenced to community service. Harry Potter was personally there to see that my sentence did not involve any time at Azkaban."

And it was in that moment that Draco's plan began to take form. For if Potter had a soft enough heart to forgive the family that had imprisoned him, been involved in the deaths of several of his friends, and supported an organization whose sole objective rested on his demise, there was certainly the possibility that he would welcome the '"reform"' of one of the Dark Lord's staunchest supporters of their generation.

After his trial, Draco had six months to consider his next move. When your enemy's entire life is an open book laid out by the press, finding the right heartstrings to pluck were not going to be difficult at all.


End file.
